Since I’m sharing our home today with three dogs (we’re dog-sitting for my in-laws), my husband (who is doing an all-day virtual professional development training in his home office), and our friend who just moved here and is staying with us until her apartment is ready, I thought I’d share a post from nearly four years ago about home as a co-working space. Though things have changed (Jordan is back at his worksite most days; I have a permanent workspace in the corner of our living room; we regularly get a wide variety of birds at our feeder, and I’m learning their names pretty well), I think the ideas explored in this post are still worth considering.
Monthly Archives: May 2024
What I’m thinking of when I’m listening to Appalachian Spring: a prose poem
This post, like my last one, has nothing directly to do with online teaching and learning, but I’ve been listening to a lot of Aaron Copland lately, and I’m interested in what people see in their minds when they listen to instrumental music. So here you go. If you’ve never listened to the Appalachian Spring ballet suite, please do: https://open.spotify.com/track/59L730gafjB2cjVOYQaHes?si=098d63e5383d422a
I am thinking of the smell of water running over rocks. I am thinking of the hallways at Fallingwater, how they were like caves. I am thinking of the shadows of leaves on the walls.
The open chords at 3:05 make me think of Out West. This is Copland dancing across the Great Plains, like he forgot where Appalachia is. But he’ll be back. The spring is calling him back.
I am thinking of a spring, water bubbling up under leaves, cold as the earth. I am also thinking of the spring, when white petals pop out on the branches and frame the photo of Fallingwater you are taking from across the stream. A spring in the spring. And now we are back to small things, quiet melodies, tiny drops of water sliding down the rock you are standing on.
Suddenly, a cascade. The water is bubbling up and spilling over in mirth. The snow is melting.
And now I am thinking of simple gifts. They’re in the lyrics you only hear in your head, and they’re also in the melody. You can sing this part, even if you don’t know the words. This music is a gift; this place is a gift. Take your shoes off like a dancer, and stand on the earth as the spring sun warms it. Stay here a long time. It’s a gift to be free.
Now I am thinking of nightfall, how quiet it is here as the sun goes down behind the mountain, and you slip back into your house and all you can hear is the bubbling of the spring. I am thinking of the smell of water running over rocks.
Sunrise over the Sea of Tiberias
In my last post (which was longer ago than I realized!), I mentioned that I’m working on a couple of short stories based on the life of Jesus. I want to share the latest draft of one of those stories with you. This is based on chapter 21 of the gospel of John. I feel like it needs one more paragraph to bring it to a close at the end, so if you have any suggestions, I’m open!
The sun was just starting to rise over the Sea of Tiberias. An orange glow crossed by thin dark clouds. The air was still chilly.
Some of us had gone fishing overnight. It had been Peter’s idea; he’d said he wanted to do something with his hands.
“But we’re not fishermen anymore,” Andrew had pointed out.
“What are we, then?” Peter had argued. That had silenced Andrew. “Besides, we’re not going to sell them,” Peter had said. “I just want to do something.”
Not all of us were trained as fishermen, but those who were gave us things to do, to keep us busy. We sat in the boat all night, quiet in the dark, drained of stories from the past week.
As the sun began to rise, we headed back to shore. A silhouette of a man was standing there. I shivered. He called out: “I guess you guys didn’t catch any fish?”
I thought I recognized the man’s voice, but I didn’t want to say it. I glanced at the others.
“No,” Peter called out. He didn’t sound irritated, just tired.
The man called back: “Let down your net on the right side of the boat. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
Someone gasped. I saw John smile and nod. “Do it,” said Peter. Of course we did. I wasn’t there three years ago, but I’d heard the story dozens of times.
Immediately, the net was full of fish. This was not a surprise—again we all knew what to expect—but it still took my breath away. I paused to gasp some air into my lungs. “Grab the net!” James hollered. I did. But even with all of us pulling, we couldn’t get the net into the boat.
“Drag it in,” said Peter. “I’m going to talk to Jesus.” He took off his coat and jumped into the chilly water.
The orange glow was spreading up from the horizon. James and John got us into the little boat, not the main boat, so we could pull the net into shore without having to weigh anchor. My job was to hold onto the net for dear life.
When we got to shore, there was a small coal fire with bread toasting over it. Just when I realized I was hungry, the man raised his head from the deep consultation he had been in with Peter and smiled. It was unmistakably Jesus. There was a moment when I forgot he had been dead a week before. I remembered when he pushed his hair off his forehead and when I saw the ugly scar in his hand. “I’m making breakfast for us,” he said. “Hand me a couple of those fish.”
I grabbed two of the fish from the teeming pile. They were cold, and a ray of sun shone off their silver scales. I placed them in Jesus’ hands, which were warm from the fire. “Thank you,” he said, looking in my eyes, and it sounded like a blessing. I didn’t know what to say, and Peter looked eager to continue their talk, so I turned back toward the net. “We should count these,” Thomas said.
“Why?” I frowned. “We’re not going to sell them.”
“Someone will want to record the number.” He gestured toward the others. At least two of them were writing down their experiences with Jesus. I was just trying to make sense of it all in my head.
“Is the number important?” I looked at the net. It was just a small one, not a big commercial net like I’d seen some of the fancier-looking fleets have. But it was bursting, a multitude of fish now glowing with the fire of the mostly risen sun.
Thomas shrugged, already spreading out a canvas for them to dry. “Anything might be important.”
So, I helped. As Peter remained in hushed conversation with Jesus, who listened carefully as he turned the fish over the fire, as James and John mended a net just on the edge of their discussion, as Nathanael walked the beach alone, picking up driftwood for the fire, I helped Thomas count the fish. There were 153.
The sun had fully risen when Jesus said, “Breakfast is ready.” He broke the bread and passed it around. He burned his fingers on the fish as he divided it up. The skin was salty and crispy and the flesh flaky, and I didn’t know if it was because God had cooked this fish or because Jesus of Nazareth just had a lot of practice preparing food in the open air. But it was perhaps the best fish I had ever eaten. The bread, too, was soft on the inside with a faint char on the outside, and this surprised me not at all.
Jesus looked out to sea, toward the sun in its strength. Then he looked back to us, casting his gaze around the circle, where we all sat licking our fingers. “Remember,” he said. “You are the light of the world. You are the salt of the earth. You are the fishers of men.” He smiled. “But you are shepherds now, too. As I just told Peter, I am sending you to feed my sheep.”
Peter ducked his head and gave a grin that looked uncharacteristically shy. I thought about how Jesus had called himself the good shepherd. Now he was asking us to be the same.
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